“It was the diversity of Churchill’s talents that most impressed Edmond,” Winston said. “Humans rarely display proficiency across such a broad spectrum of activities.”
“And that’s why Edmond named you ‘Winston’?”
“It is,” the computer replied. “High praise from Edmond.”
Glad I asked, Langdon thought, having imagined Winston’s name was an allusion to Watson—the IBM computer that had dominated the Jeopardy! television game show a decade ago. No doubt Watson was probably now considered a primitive, single-celled bacterium on the evolutionary scale of synthetic intelligence.
“Okay, then,” Langdon said, motioning to the elevators. “Let’s head upstairs and try to find what we came for.”
At that precise moment, inside Madrid’s Almudena Cathedral, Commander Diego Garza was clutching his phone and listening in disbelief as the palace’s PR coordinator, Mónica Martín, gave him an update.
Valdespino and Prince Julián left the safety of the compound?
Garza could not begin to imagine what they were thinking.
They’re driving around Madrid in an acolyte’s car? That’s madness!
“We can contact the transportation authorities,” Martín said. “Suresh believes they can use traffic cams to help track—”
“No!” Garza declared. “Alerting anyone to the fact that the prince is outside the palace without security is far too dangerous! His safety is our primary concern.”
“Understood, sir,” Martín said, sounding suddenly uneasy. “There’s something else you should know. It’s about a missing phone record.”
“Hold on,” Garza said, distracted by the arrival of his four Guardia agents, who, to his mystification, strode over and encircled him. Before Garza could react, his agents had skillfully relieved him of his sidearm and phone.
“Commander Garza,” his lead agent said, stone-faced. “I have direct orders to place you under arrest.”
CHAPTER 52
CASA MILÀ IS built in the shape of an infinity sign—an endless curve that doubles back over itself and forms two undulating chasms that penetrate the building. Each of these open-air light wells is nearly a hundred feet deep, crumpled like a partially collapsed tube, and from the air they resembled two massive sinkholes in the roof of the building.
From where Langdon stood at the base of the narrower light well, the effect looking skyward was decidedly unsettling—like being lodged in the throat of a giant beast.
Beneath Langdon’s feet, the stone floor was sloped and uneven. A helix staircase spiraled up the interior of the shaft, its railing forged of wrought iron latticework that mimicked the uneven chambers of a sea sponge. A small jungle of twisting vines and swooping palms spilled over the banisters as if about to overgrow the entire space.
Living architecture, Langdon mused, marveling at Gaudí’s ability to imbue his work with an almost biological quality.
Langdon’s eyes climbed higher again, up the sides of the “gorge,” scaling the curved walls, where a quilt of brown and green tiles intermingled with muted frescoes depicting plants and flowers that seemed to be growing up toward the oblong patch of night sky at the top of the open shaft.
“Elevators are this way,” Ambra whispered, leading him around the edge of the courtyard. “Edmond’s apartment is all the way up.”
As they boarded the uncomfortably small elevator, Langdon pictured the building’s top-floor garret, which he had visited once to see the small Gaudí exhibit housed there. As he recalled, the Casa Milà attic was a dark, sinuous series of rooms with very few windows.
“Edmond could live anywhere,” Langdon said as the elevator began to climb. “I still can’t believe he leased an attic.”
“It’s a strange apartment,” Ambra agreed. “But as you know, Edmond was eccentric.”
When the elevator reached the top floor, they disembarked into an elegant hallway and climbed an additional set of winding stairs to a private landing at the very top of the building.
“This is it,” Ambra said, motioning to a sleek metal door that had no knob or keyhole. The futuristic portal looked entirely out of place in this building and clearly had been added by Edmond.
“You said you know where he hides his key?” Langdon asked.
Ambra held up Edmond’s phone. “The same place where he seems to hide everything.”
She pressed the phone against the metal door, which beeped three times, and Langdon heard a series of dead bolts sliding open. Ambra pocketed the phone and pushed the door open.
“After you,” she said with a flourish.
Langdon stepped over the threshold into a dimly lit foyer whose walls and ceiling were pale brick. The floor was stone, and the air tasted thin.
As he moved through the entryway into the open space beyond, he found himself face-to-face with a massive painting, which hung on the rear wall, impeccably illuminated by museum-quality pin lights.
When Langdon saw the work, he stopped dead in his tracks. “My God, is that … the original?”
Ambra smiled. “Yes, I was going to mention it on the plane, but I thought I’d surprise you.”
Speechless, Langdon moved toward the masterpiece. It was about twelve feet long and more than four feet tall—far larger than he recalled from seeing it previously in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. I heard this was sold to an anonymous collector, but I had no idea it was Edmond!
“When I first saw it in the apartment,” Ambra said, “I could not believe that Edmond had a taste for this style of art. But now that I know what he was working on this year, the painting seems eerily appropriate.”